Thursday, July 12, 2012

A Twist Of Noir 697 - Ian Ayris

TINA THE DWARF PROSTITUTE – A LOVE STORY - IAN AYRIS

I am in love with Tina the Dwarf Prostitute. She is not here. The circus is
in town. Her public awaits.

'Oy! Fuckface! Where's my bleedin cuppa?'

I tear my gaze away from the kitchen window. Away from the world. Tony.
Flatmate. Arsehole. Rich city boy arsehole. Whilst I am 'between jobs', and
Tina's income is, so to speak, 'sporadic', we rely on Tony to keep us. And he
does. But as I have alluded, the man is an utter moron. He has been off work for
two weeks now, lazing about.

So, with Tina 'otherwise engaged' today, it is just him and I.
Lovely.

'Come on, cunt! Hurry up!'

I stir Tony's tea, trying not to think of Tina and the Strongman. Tina and
the Fire Eater. Tina and the Clown. We are not an item, Tina and I, merely
friends. Yet, of late, I have begun to think of her in different ways. Ways that
shame me.

I retreat to the lounge to break my train of thought, and give Tony his
tea. His eyes are glued to the television screen. He holds out his hand to take
the tea without even so much as a 'Thank you'. I glance at what it is he is so
engrossed in, and quickly look away.

Daytime television. Voyeuristic mediocrity in a box presented by parasitic
slimeballs in shiny suits, preying on the scum of this earth. For Tony here,
something to aspire to. To learn from. To laugh at.

'Look at these fuckers,' he says, sipping his tea. 'She's been shaggin his
uncle, and the old man's been havin it off with her mum. Fantastic!'

I'm thinking of my Tina.

The adverts come on.

'We got any biscuits?' Tony says, as if I'm the only one in this God
forsaken place that knows.

I shake my head, and I can't help sighing. Not for the lack of
biscuits.

'What's up with you?' Tony says. 'Cos that midget's gone out?'

Muscles tighten all over my body.

'What you see in her anyway? Is it her little teeny hands, is it? Them
little feet? The way she waddles like a fuckin duck?'

The ice comes in my veins.

'Quack quack,' Tony says, waddling around the lounge on his knees, speaking
in a squeaky voice. 'Quack, quack. My name's Tina, and I'm a dwarf
fucker.'

There is a space in the continum that most of us only get a glimpse or two of in a lifetime. A quiet place. A vast stillness that contains only logic and necessity. A place where all solutions are simple, clear and usually blood soaked and filled with screams. A place most of us run away from as fast as we can. Ian Ayris lives there. And writes about it. Cool.